By morning, when I called Madison, she seemed relaxed. I didn’t bring up the bonfire and neither did she. She, instead, decided to focus back on my birthday party, which I still hadn’t agreed to host. She offered to do all the planning and even ask her event planner Gayle to pull a few strings to secure a location. Part of me wanted to agree (the last thing I needed was another obstacle in our friendship), while the other part didn’t want to host a rerun of her micro-detailed soiree.
“What’s the big deal? Just throw the darn party,” Lilly suggested, as she lay across my bed flipping through her algebra book pretending to do homework.
“You of all people should understand. How much did you want to have your Quinceañera?” I asked as I typed my assignment on the Boston Massacre. (Maybe I could have a colonial theme with guests dressed like Minute Men carrying super-soaker muskets?)
“Yeah, but this is different. It’s an actual party. You don’t have to wear a pink dress or go to church.”
“But there’s still all the pressure to be ‘awesome.’ And let’s face it, I’m not an awesome kind of girl.” I peered up from my laptop.
“And Madison is?”
“She had Orlando Bloom sign her guestbook, didn’t she?”
“So? Why does a Sweet Sixteen have to be this star-studded event? Why can’t it just be a birthday party?”
“And why can’t a Quinceañera just be a birthday party? Because it isn’t.”
“Well, maybe that’s how your party can be different. It can just be a party. I was talking to my mom... .”
“You discussed my birthday plans with your mom?”
“You discussed my Quinceañera plans at length with my mom. Are you kidding?”
“Good point.”
“Anyway, she was thrilled to return the favor. And she said that you should be true to yourself. No poofy dress, no grand entrance, no crystal ballroom, just food, music, and friends.”
“Don’t forget family. I have the foreign tia flying in any day now.” I rolled my eyes.
“Then don’t invite Teresa! It’s not like your parents can force you.”
“Uh, clearly you don’t know my parents... .”
I stared at my homework trying to focus on anything other than party plans. Only the next question was on the Boston Tea Party, very fitting. I wondered if I tossed a bunch of lattes in the Delaware River, if it could pass as a Sweet Sixteen. It would be a whole lot easier.
“Hey, remember right after your parents showed up in Utuado, you joked that you’d throw a Puerto Rican fiesta? Maybe you could do that?”
“I was kidding.”
“So? It doesn’t have to be a joke.”
I spun around in my desk chair. Lilly’s ratty hair was tied in a bun on the top of her head, and she was wearing my old Dance Camp T-shirt and cut-off stretch pants. I used to sleep in that outfit. Now she did.
“We have, like, three weeks,” I said, shaking my head.
“That’s all you need. Between us and your mom, we can pull this together. Come on, look at all the work you did for my Quinceañera. It’s my turn now.”
I tossed back my head and dug my fingers into my hair. I still didn’t have much of a guest list, but if I didn’t have much of a party then at least it wouldn’t matter. And a backyard locale would mean I wouldn’t have to dress up. Plus, my family really couldn’t cause too much damage. They already had the big post-Utuado confrontation at the barbeque, how much worse could it be? It’s not like I would actually invite Teresa and expect them to hang out with her.
I yanked myself back upright and peered at Lilly.
“Fine. Let’s do it.”
Three days later, I was drowning in details. I had barely gotten the announcement out of my mouth before my mom hit the phone. She actually had a party rental place on speed dial, and within the hour, she had the tent, chairs, tables, and dance floor booked. The caterers were a bit trickier. As soon as we mentioned Puerto Rico, they assumed we wanted tacos, burritos, and enchiladas. Lilly grabbed the phone and launched into a lengthy discussion about the cultural differences between Mexico and Puerto Rico, but I’m not sure it helped. At the end of the conversation, the caterer asked if they could still serve shrimp quesadillas as an appetizer.
But they weren’t half as resistant as my friends. Madison and Emily had choked on their lunches when I broke the news on Monday. I had to wave the Spring Mills cafeteria monitor off as he dashed over to test out his freshly honed Heimlich maneuver skills. I had never seen someone gag so much on a sip of water.
“What?” Madison, shrieked between gasps of air as she coughed.
“A Latin theme? Like Ricky Martin?” Emily wiped her mouth from where she had hacked up her pretzel bite.
“No, not Ricky Martin,” I answered. “Just Puerto Rican food and salsa.”
“You mean tortilla chips? Who cares about tortilla chips?” Emily tilted her head.
“No! Salsa the music, not the dip!”
“Well, excuse us for not having much exposure to salsa music,” Madison mocked between coughs. “We do live in America. I doubt many kids here will be jumping out of their chairs to hear some weird foreign music.”
“Oh come on, it’ll be fun.”
“It’s not in English.”
“But the dance is really fun. Trust me, you guys’ll love it.”
“Doubt it,” Madison mumbled as she sipped her water.
“So,” Emily interjected. “Where are you having it?”
“At my parents’ house.”
They both groaned and rolled their eyes. Annoyance hummed between them.
“Seriously, Mariana, I realize you weren’t here this summer,” Madison’s voice was calm and serious, “so you haven’t been to as many Sweet Sixteens as Emily and I. But please, don’t do this to yourself. Jackie Cash threw her party at her mom’s house. It’s practically an estate, and it still sucked. Why? Because how much fun can you possibly have in a tent peeing in portable toilets? And that wasn’t the worst part. She played the Macarena. The Macarena, Mariana! One Spanish song ruined her party, and you’re actually thinking of basing an entire theme around that crap!”
The conversation didn’t get much better after that. Madison spent the rest of the day trying to convince me to book the lovely banquet hall her event planner had found available. She made a detailed list of reasons why my suggested party plans were as appealing as a presidential address, down to the fact that Lilly and I were the only “sort of Hispanics” in the whole school. Only she didn’t realize that she had nailed my entire rationale. After sixteen years of enduring not-so-clever Spanish nicknames, I figured I might as well live up to my image. I was sick of apologizing for my last name. If the Irish could turn a saint’s birthday into a universally celebrated drinking holiday, then I could make a Sweet Sixteen centered around salsa music.
So, eventually, Madison admitted defeat (or at least refocused on damage control). She was now helping Lilly, my mom, and me finalize the plans. Gayle contributed a list of local bands that played Latin music, and we were all logged onto computers rating their skills. Lilly was stationed in my dad’s den, Madison and I were at the kitchen table, and my mom was scanning magazines. (She wasn’t into music.)
“Okay, these people suck,” Madison moaned as we listened to the third band in a row attempt “La Copa.” “I didn’t know the song could be sung worse, but these fools managed it. I mean, if all they do is Latin music, you’d think they’d be better at it, right?”
“I don’t know. They’re not that bad,” I whined, staring at my computer as a group of dirty old men in brightly colored outfits gyrated to Ricky Martin.
Truthfully, they weren’t half as bad as the musicians who had played at Lilly’s Quinceañera—a detail I had shared with Madison via e-mail while I was still in Puerto Rico. I was greatly regretting that decision now as my best friend ignored every suggestion my cousin made. “Tropical hick-town chic is not the look we’re going for, ’kay?” Madison mocked as if it were a f
act not an insult. Of course I couldn’t really expect her to understand the benefits of a family-centric, homespun affair—the girl imported chocolate from Switzerland for her melting fondue fountain, and her L.A.-based band was slated to appear on the “Late Show” next month.
“Mariana, have you thought about serving the drinks with little umbrellas?” my mom asked as she examined a magazine spread.
“No, mom. Can’t say that I have.”
“Don’t bother. Lucy Silver did it at her party in July, and the guys ended up using the sticks as little weapons. A kid almost lost an eye,” Madison stated.
“Mmmm.” My mom nodded.
I had already shot down a sombrero-shaped birthday cake, a professional flamenco dancer, and a candy-filled piñata in the shape of a coqui frog. (My mom thought she could craft the papier mâché herself. I was half-tempted to let her try, so I could videotape the scene and send it to Vince.)
“How about serving the fried bananas as a dessert rather than a side dish? Maybe with some melted caramel sauce?”
“They’re called plantains, mom.”
“Martha has an interesting recipe in here... .”
“Oh! You know what? We could do a mini dessert spread.” Madison’s eyes beamed as they met my mom’s. “Have a tiny fried banana on one plate, a tiny dulce de leche on another ...”
“That’s fabulous. And if we serve it on the ivory china ...”
“With little silver spoons ...”
“Exactly!”
“We could even do mini fruit salads ...”
“Or sliced pineapple.”
“Rum cake?”
“Maybe, depends on how it’s served,” my mom suggested.
“Maybe in mini custard cups?”
“Or tiny flans?”
I left the room, taking the laptop with me. I was certain they wouldn’t notice. By the time I got back, they’d probably have spent another grand of my father’s money. He was currently hiding in the family room—the last thing he wanted was to be included in any party conversations, unless they pertained to the budget.
“So, how’s the search going?” I asked Lilly. Her brown eyes were glued to the screen as yet another band belted “Bailamos.” The lead singer had to be older than my father and about twice his weight.
“A couple of these bands are okay. But I don’t love any yet.”
“Yeah, I don’t think anyone does.”
“How’s everything out there?”
“I think the Southern Hemisphere could spontaneously combust, and my mom and Madison would still be focused on my party.”
Lilly chuckled. “Now you know how I felt this summer.”
Lilly had left all of her Quinceañera plans up to her mother until I stepped in. I single-handedly saved the girl from wearing a bubblegum frock with a thick yellow-gold rope necklace. But we were in Utuado; our options were limited. Here in Philadelphia, we seemed to be suffering from an overabundance of party options, from tropical centerpieces, to colored tablecloths, to silver serving bowls, to Latin music.
Lilly glanced back at the screen and clicked on another band’s Web site.
“Hey, at least these people have some actual salsa songs on their playlist rather than just Enrique, Ricky, and Marc.”
She downloaded their music files as I logged onto my e-mail from my laptop. Vince and Alex had both sent me messages.
I clicked on Vince’s first. (I always read my e-mails in the order in which they were received—it was only fair.) A photo immediately popped up. It was a shirtless Vince surrounded by a wild crowd of guys in T-shirts, jeans, and baseball caps holding a funnel with a long plastic tube to my brother’s mouth. His eyes were clenched shut, and beer was dribbling down his chin. Above it read: “I’m joining a fraternity, and I already broke their record! Only three seconds!” Clearly he was proud of his drinking accomplishments, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or be embarrassed. But I definitely wasn’t surprised. He might not be the brightest kid at Cornell, but I could guess he was one of the most popular.
Next, I opened Alex’s.
Hola Mariana!
¿Como estas? Estoy bien. Puerto Rico’s not the same without you and Lilly. School’s boring. Just a bunch of stupid Americans—oops, sorry. How was your first day? Is Spring Mills everything you remembered it to be?
I hear Teresa’s moving to the States. Is that weird for you? I remember you had a hard time with everything here. I hope it’s gotten easier. I asked Teresa to bring a surprise to your birthday party. I didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten. Hope you like it.
Miss you mi amor.
—Alex
I read the e-mail three more times just to make sure I understood. I asked Teresa to bring a surprise to your birthday party. How did Alex know about my party (I hadn’t told him yet) and who invited Teresa?
“What? ¿Que paso?” Lilly asked, gawking at my shocked expression.
I wagged my head at the screen as my leg bounced.
“Is my house turning into the freakin’ CIA or something?” I mumbled.
“What are you talking about?”
I didn’t respond.
“Hey, did you hear me? I said I think I found your band.”
I ignored her. Instead I stood up, grabbed my laptop, and charged into the kitchen.
“Dad! Dad!”
Chapter 14
I was finding it very hard to focus on chemistry the next day, considering there was a very real possibility that my uncle might attempt to kill his half sister during my Sweet Sixteen. It wasn’t that I didn’t find the proton numbers in atomic nuclei fascinating; it was just that they couldn’t possibly compare to the atomic bomb that was my guest list.
It was Thursday afternoon, and as I tapped my pencil on my lab desk, my nerves spun into overdrive. I had to diffuse this situation. Only I couldn’t rely on my father. When I had confronted him last night, he had accused me of being dramatic, again.
“Dad, would it have killed you to tell me that you were inviting some random tia to my birthday party?”
“Mariana, can you please not make a scene over this?” he griped, loosening his tie.
Lilly, Madison, and my mom were standing behind me in the family room. From the eye contact my parents were making, I could tell they had conspired together. My mom was probably waiting for the right moment to jump in and break up our argument, but I wasn’t about to back off. Not this time.
I clutched my auburn hair in my fists, and I sucked in a long breath.
“Dad, I get that you don’t feel the need to include me in all aspects of our family history. But would it kill you to maybe, just maybe, clue me in on the major events that do affect me?” I felt my heart thump in my gut as the words gushed out. “For example, shipping me and Vince off to Puerto Rico without saying ‘Hey, by the way, you might run into my half sister,’ was a bad idea. Not telling us that this same woman was moving across the bridge to Jersey was also a bad idea. But, at the very least, how could you possibly not think it important to inform me, ME, that you had decided to invite this ticking family time bomb to my birthday party?”
“God, Mariana, must you be so dramatic?” my father growled with an exasperated sigh.
Prior to this summer, he had never once accused me of being a drama queen, but now it was becoming a nickname of choice for his daughter. If he only knew what a real drama queen looked like (maybe he should spend some time at Madison’s house), he would be grateful for how rational I was. But no, my father actually thought he had reason to complain about his difficult, “dramatic” daughter. Not that I dared point out how lucky he was to have me; it would only have made his facial vein pulse harder.
“Mariana. Hey, Mariana,” Bobby grabbed my wrist and shook it slightly.
My eyes refocused on my chemistry classroom, and I realized everyone was gawking at me.
“I’m sorry, what?” I asked with a nervous cough, peering at Mr. Berk who was leering from a few feet away.
&nbs
p; “I asked what element is represented by the symbol Pb,” he bellowed as he adjusted his frameless glasses.
“Oh, um, lead,” I answered, sitting up straight.
“Good, thank you.”
Mr. Berk turned back toward the chalkboard and straightened his lime green bow tie. It was one of his many quirks. He was only in his thirties, but he seemed to find it clever to dress like a little old man. It was a shame, because I could tell that he’d almost be cute if he wasn’t so odd. He had thick dark hair (rare for men these days), a tall, thin build, and pale hazel eyes. But once you added the bow ties, the zip up Mr. Rogers sweaters, the loafers with tassels, and the gray fedora hat, you got a guy who was justifiably single.
“What’s up with you?” Bobby whispered. “You’ve been spaced out the whole class.”
“I don’t know. Random drama.” I sighed.
“Your birthday party?”
“How did you know?”
I hadn’t put together the e-vite yet. I wasn’t planning on sending it until Sunday. Most teens at Spring Mills preferred to distribute birthday invitations over a weekend to preempt any uninvited castoffs from finding out and getting confrontational.
“Oh, I don’t know. I must have heard it around,” he said as he jotted his chemistry notes from the board.
“This is ridiculous. I haven’t even invited anyone yet.”
“Oh, sorry. I mean, I didn’t think that I’d be ...”
“No, it’s not you. Of course you’re invited. It’s just ...”
“No, you don’t have to explain. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
Ever since the bonfire, things between Bobby and me had been awkward at best. We had barely spoken all week. I didn’t blame him for letting it drop—not too many students would want to rehash being called a “loser.” But it was the hand-holding that had me tongue-tied. I kept reminding myself that he was a filmmaker and that he was probably going for the cinematic effect: “Cut to the strong couple storming off into the dark night handin-hand.” Only there was something about his touch that reminded me of Alex, and it kept me from sharing the detail with Madison and Emily.
Amigas and School Scandals Page 9
